


Last Dance

by Goldy



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Missing Scene, illusions to 5x03, post prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: Betty and Jughead finish their Prom dance that was interrupted by the auteur. Post-5x01.She should tell him, but she won’t—at least, not tonight. And oh, she knows it is selfish—she knows the risk. He could find out from someone else, and that would be so much worse. But in his arms like this, dancing in their living room, the house still and quiet around them—she wants this perfect moment. She wants to savour it.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 24
Kudos: 48





	Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

> The end of 5x03 left me with many feelings to work through re: Bughead. I feel like there is so much that happened offscreen that we did not get to see. This fic came about as a need to try and get into where Betty's head has been in the first three episodes of season 5. Hope that it rings true!

It is the early hours of the morning when they make it home. The house is quiet; their parents and Jellybean have long since gone to bed.

Someone—her mother most likely—left a lamp illuminated for them in the living room. The lamp casts a warm yellow glow over the room and their shadows loom large over the walls.

Betty sinks down into the couch. The bottom of her dress poofs out around her and she tries to gather up as much as she can in her hands to make room for Jughead.

He does not seem interested in sitting, however. He paces back and forth in front of her, hands occasionally fiddling with his beanie before he drops them back to his sides.

Betty gives up on smoothing out her dress and instead lets it pool around her. As she does, she notices a rip along the left side, over her thigh. She winces with regret. She had _really_ liked this dress.

“Trust the auteur to ruin one of our last, normal high school experiences,” she says despondently—and then immediately feels guilty. Prom is just that—Prom. If the auteur continues to escalate like he has been, people’s lives could be on the line.

Jughead stops pacing and his eyes are soft when they land on her. “You’re right,” he says. Then he holds out a hand towards her. “Betty Cooper, will you dance with me?”

She blinks at him and then looks around their empty living room. “Here?” she says.

He shrugs and keeps his hand out. “I’m making a romantic gesture. Try not to swoon.”

“Jughead Jones, such a softie,” she says. She grins and then grabs his hand. He pulls her to her feet and into his arms. They sway without speaking.

His gaze not so subtly drifts downwards to the top of her dress. A pleased blush spreads across her face. She knew that her dress was more revealing than anything she would normally wear. But that was precisely why the dress had called out to her. It was Prom. And for once, she wanted to feel like a normal 18-year-old, and see her boyfriend’s jaw go slack when he saw her.

It seems that the dress fully accomplished that goal.

“You know,” he says. His voice is husky and his breath whispers against the shell of her ear, “I _really_ like this dress.”

A shiver goes down her spine. For some reason, she finds herself saying, “I ripped it. Maybe when we were trying to stop that video at Prom. Or after when we were at the Blue Velvet Video. I’m not sure.”

Jughead pulls her in close and then suddenly dips her backwards. She smiles up at him and then closes her eyes with pleasure as his lips brush against the shell of her ear and then her neck. “I can assure you, from where I’m looking, the dress is perfect.”

His lips trail feather light kisses down her neck that send her stomach fluttering and her heart pounding in her chest. Yes— _this_ is the normal high school experience she wanted. Her and Jughead at Prom, too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else.

The thought has barely entered her mind when her stomach twists with something else: guilt.

Guilt because she is keeping something from him. Keeping something _massive_ from him, so massive, in fact, that speaking it aloud could bring their night crashing down around them.

But she should tell him. She should have told him weeks ago when it first happened. That would have taken some of the sting out of it, wouldn’t it have?

“ _Jug, I have to tell you something. It’s about Archie. We kissed. But it only happened once. It was a mistake. But I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you.”_

The longer she goes without telling him, the worse it will be when it finally comes out. And she has no delusions: it will get out, somehow, sometime. This is Riverdale. Secrets never stay buried in Riverdale.

Jughead pulls her back into his arms and they sway quietly. His cheek presses against hers. His hands are warm on her back. She closes her eyes; breathes him in. As she does, the guilt inside of her burns hot, twisting like a knife.

“Jug,” she whispers.

“Hmm?” he says.

His fingers trace lazy patterns along her back and her heart pounds. She should tell him, but she won’t—at least, not tonight. And oh, she knows it is selfish—she knows the risk. He could find out from someone else, and that would be so much worse. But in his arms like this, dancing in their living room, the house still and quiet around them—she wants this perfect moment. She wants to savour it.

And so she swallows down the guilt, pushes it away and asks: “What’s going to happen?” she says. “When we graduate, I mean? For us.”

He stills their swaying and simply holds her close, his cheek still pressed up against hers. It is a long moment before he speaks.

“We’ll celebrate,” he says. His voice is mild, but she senses hesitancy in him. Like this is a topic he has spent many hours dwelling on, but wants to give her the impression that it has not been bothering him. “And then we’ll spend the summer together.”

She pulls away until she can meet his eyes. She tries to force a smile, but her voice is sad when she says, “And then?”

His eyes soften. “Then there will be video calls and Thanksgivings and Christmases, and so many more summers to come.”

His words feel like a weight lifting from her shoulders. She manages a genuine smile and then presses her forehead against his. “I can’t imagine anything else.”

His hands travel up her back, tug at the ends of her hair, and then his mouth is on hers, warm and insistent. The guilt flares again in her stomach, briefly, like a bad stomach bug she cannot shake. _If he knew what she did, if he knew about what happened with Archie—would his answer be the same?_ But once again, she pushes the thought away, and instead focuses on the feel of him, on kissing her boyfriend in her living room on Prom night.

Selfish she might be, but she is not ready for a different answer. Not yet.


End file.
